Having Fun with My Imagination
Posted: Tuesday, April 06, 2010
by Jennifer Stewart
Stepping out of History
Somebody made a comment the other day to me about their blissful schooldays. Well I'm all for nostalgia, but let's a get few things in perspective here. Me, I didn't enjoy school so much. In fact I didn't enjoy it so much that I was particularly thrilled to be leaving it, since I'd flailed my way through. Well, Einstein did badly at school too. I know I know, you knew I was going to say that.
She was right, I did fail. Exam time was the recurring nightmare.
I'd slink into the cavernous hall, which had rows and rows of other kids who all knew what to do and had studied and were going to pass. I'd be the only the only one who didn't, who hadn't and who wasn't. At the top of the room, on the stage, would be the adjudicator, an angry judgmental super-intelligent horrible righteous person who terrified me. Who had been brought in just to persecute me, and be loving and non-judgmental of all the other children because they were so good and he was so proud of them, and I was such a Horrible Child and he wondered why I was born.
I'd sit down and my heart would start to pound, my palms to sweat; I'd stare numbly at the paper. Blank. I hadn't studied, because I didn't know how to, I didn't know how to use my brain. The world would crash in on me. I couldn't answer any questions. I'd suffocate and tremble and fear. The hall would get bigger and bigger, the adjudicator would loom. I'd get smaller and smaller. Terror would have me so in its sadistic love-grip that I wouldn't be able to move. I'd be trapped in that time-warp.
Not surprising, really, that I failed A Levels.
To compound matters, that wasn't my only problem. In fact it was sort of minor in comparison, because it only happened a couple of times a year. No, this other problem was much much worse. I could never figure out how everybody else thought of things to say. You see, I didn't know how to talk. Oh I could form words, there was nothing physically wrong with me; I just never could think of anything to say. I'd get frantic if I was alone with one person. I'd sit with my heart beating louder and louder, thinking what can I say, what can I say, there must be something, what do other people say? Then a possibility would occur to me, and I'd be terrified to open my mouth. What if what I said was stupid, what if they laughed at me, shall I say it now, shall I say it now, oh god is it too late to say it now? Oh, it's too late.
And so on. It would be a simple sentence like "it's hot today, isn't it".
Wild unsocialised child that I was, this is what life felt like: imagine living in some post neo-colonial outback, and trying to figure out what the people mean when they say something, when the two don't match. Say for example somebody invites you to tea. You're sitting down drinking tea, hoping you're not doing anything wrong, and wondering if not why the air feels so stiff, or are you imagining it? They have a piano, and you say "what a beautiful piano". For example. Then they politely respond with "do you play?".
"Yes" is your simple reply, because it's the truth. Now you know that you mean what you say, and you wait for some sort of qualifying question, like how well, or how long have you been playing, what music do you like, etc. But that might not be the polite thing for them to do, so then they say "Oh, go on, play us something". They urge pressingly. That's where you've got to be careful in these sort of situations. They sound as if they mean it.
But god help you if you take them up on it, because you suddenly wonder if they actually - ackshally - didn't mean it, you weren't meant to take them seriously. They were just being polite. If you were of their ilk, of course, you'd have known. It would have been a meaningless exchange just to keep up the flow of conversation.
For the sake of what? Well, of appearances, of course. Of course! Head slap! What a good reason to do or say something.
Gulp. No wonder I preferred to climb trees.
But to continue: you'd have smiled and said "oh I can't possibly", they'd have pressed you, you'd have demurred, they'd have smilingly dropped it. And you'd all have known from the start what was going on and how the interchange was going to end. Nothing to do with what anybody was saying.
Obeysance to the Appearances God. Or is it obsequience. Probably not a real word. Pity.
They'd have said "have some more tea", you'd have said "no thanks", they'd have pressed you, you'd have accepted, and so on.
Since you're totally out of their loop, alas, and you have this ridiculous measuring tool of judging what people mean by what they say, and since you also are brilliantly skilled at ignoring your gut, you sit down at the piano. What you should do is remember you have to leave, make some polite excuse, and hot-foot it out of there, but you don't. You do probably the worst thing, you tackle Chopin. You're twenty bars into something, playing kind of clumsily when you realize the temperature has dropped by thirty degrees. It's terribly cold, and it feels as if a disaster looms.
You pause, turn around and say sweetly "should I stop?", and they all smile and say "noooooo, do go on, it's soooooo lovely". It's puzzling, and your gut is crying out don't listen to them, they don't mean it, but they look so convincing. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, you turn back to the keys, and carry on. Maybe they'll become engrossed by the music, maybe suddenly you'll develop super-talents.
Sweet heaven, that was the wrong choice. You should have stopped when you had the chance. How to extricate yourself? You can pretend sudden memory lapse, and throw your hands up, apologize, close the piano and go back to your seat, sip your tea, if you can stand the stiffness in the air.
The problem is, you can't tell, am I playing Chopin badly, are they best friends with the top concert pianists in the world, do they mix in high society circles, do they hate Chopin, are they jazz afficionados, should I have refused to play? Should I have refused to come to tea, is it the shape of the back of my head, is my hair untidy, are my clothes out of fashion, should I never have been born?
That's what my schooldays were like for me. Hmm. But the good news is, in place of social skills I developed an imagination. So to continue:
The only option left is to take matters into your own hands, and get down and dirty, a la Green Card. Turn Chopin into free jazz, start reciting poetry to the music, shake your hair around wildly, roll your eyes, move your body to the music, pretend you're a prima donna. Then suddenly leap up from the piano, and look at your watch, smack your forehead "I forgot! I have to take my mother into hospital at four. Oh, thanks sooooo much for the tea, it was de lightful, and what a stunning piahno, quite similar to the one I have in Paris. Or is it the one I have in New York? Anyway, had a wonderful time, thanks for the tea, gorgeous scones, Have to go! Kisses! Bye!!!"
Nostalgia. Some people remember the good old days. I remember having fun with my imagination.
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Top-level comments on this article: (5 total)I enjoy reading your stuff. We all have to rely on our imaginations sometimes. I prefer honesty. Thanks for the read. I was a little uncomfortable with the point-of-view shift form I to You after paragraph 9. You could do the same thing and maintain first person, with some effort, I'd guess. Thanks- JackThanks for your input, Jack. I tried it both ways, and wasn't sure which was better, so I went with this one. I'll go back and work on it again and see. I also prefer honesty, it has more human interest!
Hi Jennifer ..a good piece of writing...about playing on emotions and piano...Good God....you did not get A level in your school exams...we would have missed you as you would have been a corporate executive by now.What a nice thing to say, Ramaswamy!! If failing A levels is what kept me from falling into that trap, then it was worth it!
Unique and yet I suspect we have all been there in one way or another - would love to say more but I have a lovable and persistent 8 month old kitten who is trying any way he can to get in my lap and mess with my mouse hand etc... GRINOh, I love that you have a kitten! I lost my beloved 18 year old cat last year and am only now beginning to be able to think of getting another. I saw a photo of two kittens and my heart leapt about with joy! :)DO IT! you will not regret it - we have 16 paws including the new little guy who is growing like a weed - long and skinny with a big plume of a tail that he holds upright to the point it almost comes back and hits him in the head! They are fun and a comfort! We don't have TV so spent time playing with them - they are all house cats and love watching the birds from the patio doors and windows.
Wonderful article Jennifer! I have to admit, I have been in that situation before (the piano thing) but with a guitar. The imagination is a saving grace for many and you, lady have done a wonderful job with yours! I enjoyed your article immensely!Thank you Jo! It's rather wonderful to have been able to turn that time on its head and to now get the strokes I didn't get back then! I mean, think about it, how great is that?!
Interesting perspective! Thanks for sharing. ~Aimee
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